Some dads want nothing more onFather's Daythan to be left alone. I'd rather be left alone with my 7-year-old son, fishing on a pier in picturesque South Florida.

The only problem? I've never picked up a fishing pole, unless you count the flimsy sticks at the local carnival.

So to fulfill my dream of bagging a big ol' bass or gutting a giant grouper, I needed some practice.

After spending a day convincing my wife that my young son would be safe with dad, near sharp hooks and deep water, we were ready to head out. My goal: Each time my son sees someone fishing, for the rest of his life, he will think of his old dad.

Our first stop was one of the biggest fishing stores in South Florida, the Bass Pro Shop in Dania Beach. I expected a Walgreens, instead we came upon the Walmart of fishing and hunting supplies. I had no idea you could buy fresh bait in vending machines, or find fishing poles in pretty pink and coral colors. You can even match your Miami Heat jersey.

At the store, we caught up with Captain Brian, also known as Brian Leibowitz, a Coast Guard-licensed, permanently suntanned expert fishing guide and owner of Captain Brian Charters, which lures fishermen from around the country to the waters of the Everglades and South Florida. Once a month, Captain Brian spends a Saturday teaching children how to fish.

"It hurts me to hear that about anyone who lives or visits South Florida," said the captain, after I told him I was a virgin fisherman. "There is nothing in the world like fishing here."

My son couldn't wait. He has the patience of, well, a 7-year-old. "Dad, can we go yet?" my son whispered at least 10 times.

"Let me learn how to fish first," I pleaded.

Our first lesson: You don't need big bucks to fish. The Captain introduced us to $5 cane poles, made of hollow sugar cane poles (duh!), which he promised was enough to catch that big bass. My ego wanted an upgrade. My son wanted us to match, so instead we latched onto something called an Ugly Stik, a hybrid pole short enough to fish in a canal and long enough to work off a pier too. I liked the $35 price tag per pole.

Captain Brian helped us pick out hooks, a nail-clipper-looking gadget to trim the fishing line, rubber worms and a few other items. We spent about $100 and got a free lesson on attaching hooks to a pole with a clinch knot. Wire into the hook hole, wind the wire six times, then put the wire through the new hole and cinch.

Now Team Vasquez was ready.

First we tried a nearby lake. "Good luck, Dad," my son said as he watched me ready the pole. For some reason, he didn't want to handle his. I learned later that the captain's wife had lovingly scared the wits out of my son, sharing stories of fishermen hooking themselves.

I just thought he was being shy. So I took the lead, reared my rod back and snapped it forward with the natural ease and skill of Tom Sawyer himself. That was the movie reel in my mind. In reality, my line snagged, twisted and jammed, the real reel in my hand before the hook could reach the water. "Damn," I shouted. "What?" my son asked. "Darn," I said.

But there was no hiding my frustration as I tried to untangle my frozen line. "Let's go home and play Xbox," my son said, trying to console me. Then I remembered my mission.

"Sometimes in life you need to ask for help," I told my son, as I walked toward several strangers, none of whom had a clue about what to do. Then came Kenny Green to the rescue. The freckle-faced 11-year-old from Leakesville, Miss., said he spent all of his free time fishing or hunting. It was evident by the way he quickly cut my strangled line, rewired the hook and sent that hook casting into the waters 30 feet away from us. "That's so cool," my son said, as my ego faltered.

"Fishin' is fun," was about all young Kenny would say. After a few dozen tutorial castings, my son and I were ready to go solo once more.

We headed to the Dania Pier with hopes of better success. A few tangled tries later, I found myself asking for help from Javier Canevaro, visiting from Hawaii. He told us to switch from rubber worms to squid bait to have a better chance with the saltwater fish. He helped us cut and attach the stinky meat bait to the hook.

"Good luck, Dad," I heard again. And with that, it happened. I cast my first successful hook. My smile was only eclipsed by my son's. And I did it again and again. Mainly because the fish kept eating my squid.

But there we were: Father and son fishing off the pier, sharing a single pole (my son still would not go near his) and a special moment. As the sun began to set off to the West, it dawned on me. This is what fishing in South Florida is all about.

And today, onFather's Day, I'm ready to try my hand at fishing again — just father and son.